A Coulter’s Christmas Proposal

by Lois Faye Dyer

  “Thanks.” She waited until he turned away, tension vibrating between them before she sat and peered into the open boxes, torn as to which to choose first. Opting for a journal, she lifted out a spiral-bound notebook. The first page was covered in block letters scrawled in a childish hand. Amanda calculated quickly and realized that based on the date scribbled at the top of the page, Melanie must have been ten years old when she wrote the words.

  Delighted, she bent over the notebook and began to read. Quickly becoming absorbed in the comments, she determinedly ignored Eli when he went outside to his truck and returned with a box.

  Silence filled the room, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the faint sound of cloth rubbing over metal.

  “Oh, my.” Amanda’s soft gasp was reverent, filled with awe.

  “What is it?” Eli was certain he’d checked the notebooks for loose papers or any personal comments his mother would have wanted kept private. The journals he’d given Amanda were written when Melanie was a young girl and he didn’t think there could possibly be anything controversial or shocking in them. Nevertheless, he left his stool at the workbench to join her and look over Amanda’s shoulder.

  “Your mother sketched in her journals, too,” Amanda said. The tip of her index finger carefully traced the decisive black ink strokes of an eagle in flight that filled the page. The simple sketch conveyed the fierceness of the raptor and his joy at the wind that lifted his wings as he soared. “Look how amazingly good she was, even as a child.”

  Relief washed over Eli. He inspected the sketch, his trained eye seeing the mistakes while acknowledging the obvious talent. “She was born with a gift,” he agreed.

  Amanda half turned in her chair to look up at him. “Did you spend a lot of time here in the studio with your mother? Was she your first art teacher?”

  Eli didn’t answer for a moment. Her face was lit with bright-eyed interest and he could discern no sign that she was probing for information. Still, he reminded himself, he didn’t know her well enough to judge whether she was being deceptive. His gaze left hers to move over the long room, lingering on the tools his mother had used, her favorite stool at the workbench, and her tarnished sculpture he was currently cleaning.

  “I spent more time here with mom than my brothers did. She was always happy to have us, although we must have interrupted her work. She kept a big box of toys and art supplies for us to play with when we were in here.”

  “And did you know early on that you would be an artist?” Amanda asked. She waved a hand at the journal, open to the sketch of the eagle. “Like your mother, I mean. Clearly, she was already working when she was quite young.”

  Eli glanced from the open journal to Amanda’s face. “Are you asking as a reporter? Or as an interested fan?”

  His question wiped the warm interest from her expression. Her full lips firmed, tightening. “I’m writing a biography about your mother, Eli. I don’t have to include your story. Unless, of course, you want me to,” she added coolly.

  “Hell, no,” he said with feeling.

  She studied him for a moment, her hazel eyes assessing behind the narrow black frames of her glasses. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an artist who’s been quite as adamant about avoiding publicity as you apparently are. Don’t you want to reach a larger audience for your work?”

  “Not if it means giving up my privacy,” he answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t mind being rich but I don’t want to be famous.”

  “Why not?” She leaned back in her chair, crossing slim arms over her chest. The move drew her white knit top tighter over her chest, outlining the full swell of her breasts. “I thought every artist wanted to be famous.”

  “Not me.” Eli shook his head.

  “So you don’t want a wider fan base that loves your work?” she asked skeptically.

  “Ah, now that’s a whole other subject,” he corrected her. “I’m always glad to know someone appreciates my work. But that’s not the same as being famous myself.”

  She frowned and sat up straighter, moving forward to the edge of her chair and spreading her hands in a gesture that reflected her confusion. “Aren’t we talking about one and the same thing?”

  “No, we’re not. People can enjoy my work without ever meeting me, or knowing my name and what I look like. Appreciating a piece of art has nothing to do with whether the viewer appreciates the personality of the artist.”

  She pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at him. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those reclusive hermits who refuses to appear at gallery showings,” she said suspiciously.

  He grinned. She reminded him of a cute little hen, feathers ruffled and ready to attack, at least verbally, if he confirmed her suspicions.

  “No,” he reassured her. “I attend gallery openings. And I chat with all the patrons. I’m charming to the little gray-haired ladies and I ignore the women who try to get too touchy-feely after they’ve finished their third glass of wine. I draw the line at getting patted on the butt, though,” he told her solemnly. “And I never sleep with anyone just because they’re willing to pay me an exorbitant amount of money for one of my sculptures. Frankly, it feels too much like prostitution.”

  Eli held back a laugh when Amanda’s eyes widened at his last sentence.

  “If a man does that to a woman,” she said with a frown, “it’s called sexual harassment.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “But in my experience, women with a little too much wine in their system aren’t able to make that connection.”

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of treatment,” she said firmly.

  “I agree. That’s why I don’t let it happen twice. At least not with the same semi-inebriated woman,” he added.

  “I’ve been to lots of gallery exhibit openings,” she told him, “and while I noticed artists being hit on by the opposite sex, I never thought anyone seemed upset by the attention.”

  Eli shrugged. “Some aren’t. I have friends who consider the number of women willing to bed the most artists one of the perks of the job.”

  “But you’re not one of them.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No,” Eli said. “I’m definitely not one of them. I prefer my women sober.” He studied her, the gleam of her hair, the intelligence in the hazel eyes that watched him, the plump curve of her bottom lip and the swell of breasts beneath the modest white knit top. “And if I’m interested, I like to make the first move.”

  A faint flush colored her cheeks as she stared at him, but she didn’t lower her lashes or look away. “So, you prefer to be the one with your hand on a strange woman’s butt rather than the other way around?”

  He chuckled. “I hope I’d have a little more finesse with a stranger, but yes, that’s the general idea.”

  Her lips curved in an answering smile. “You’re an old-fashioned man, Mr. Coulter. I never would have guessed.”

  “I suppose I am in some ways. Certainly when it comes to courting a woman.”

  Her smile brimmed with delight; her eyes filled with wicked amusement. “And the term ‘courting a woman’ is totally old-school. Are you a romantic, too?”

  “Hell, no.” He shook his head, affronted. “I haven’t got a romantic bone in my body.”

  “No?” She tilted her head a bit to the side, the end of her ponytail swinging to brush her shoulder. “You sound like a romantic kind of guy.”

  “I’m old-fashioned enough to prefer being the pursuer in a relationship,” he corrected her. “That doesn’t make me a romantic.”

  She pursed her lips consideringly. “That’s what it sounds like to me,” she said, clearly not convinced.

  “I don’t believe in hearts and flowers, living happily ever after and wedding bells,” he told her. “Ergo, I’m not romantic.”

  “So you’re radically different from your brothers, then?”

  Eli almost growled, all amusement fleeing as he frowned. “I didn’t think so six months ago. But apparen
tly there’s something about returning to Montana that spun them around one hundred eighty degrees.” He shrugged. “Or it’s the women. I have to admit, Mariah and Cynthia seem to fit Cade and Zach.”

  “And you never thought that would happen?”

  Her comment was too insightful, too dead on target to be comfortable. His muscles twitched and his gut clenched, but since Amanda’s expression didn’t change, he was fairly sure she didn’t notice.

  “No, I didn’t. I guess I never thought any of us would find partners, let alone get married,” he told her.

  “Maybe you and Brodie won’t,” she pointed out.

  “I’d say that’s a safe bet in any poker game,” he responded with conviction.

  “Well, then…” She spread her hands wide and shrugged. “That settles that.” Was it Eli’s imagination or did she suddenly seem annoyed?

  Eli wasn’t sure how they’d drifted into the quagmire of discussing whether or not he and Brodie would marry, but he was damn sure he was glad to be done with the subject. He turned and walked to the kitchenette. “Want some coffee?” he asked over his shoulder as he took two mugs out of the cabinet.

  “Yes, please.”

  Eli delivered a mug of coffee to Amanda, nodded a silent acceptance of her thanks and returned to the stool at the workbench. For the next hour, there was little conversation as she seemed to concentrate on the journals, occasionally jotting notes on a tablet. Although he was aware of every move Amanda made, no matter how slight, Eli forced himself to focus on the meticulous removal of tarnish from the sculpture. He used soft towels and polish, choosing a time-tested method rather than a battery-operated or electric buffer. Cleaning the pieces would take longer this way, but he wouldn’t trust his mother’s work to anything less.

  His cell phone rang just before one o’clock. He glanced at his watch, nodding as he listened to Cade’s request. “No problem. I’ll be right there.”

  “We’ll have to cut today’s session short,” he told Amanda when he hung up. He stood and settled the sculpture back into the padded box. “Some of our cattle are out and Cade needs my help. I’ll be mending fence this afternoon.”

  She looked up, closing the notebook. “Of course.” She tucked Melanie’s journal back into the cardboard box. “I assume I can take my notes with me? I’d like to transcribe them into my laptop file tonight.”

  “Sure.” Eli couldn’t think of any reason to refuse her request.

  “Thank you.” She walked to the workbench, tucked her tablet into a side pocket of her laptop bag and picked up both it and her purse.

  Eli stepped back to wave her ahead of him. The subtle feminine scent of her perfume teased him as she brushed past, and his muscles tightened in reaction. Jaw set, he followed her to the exit, holding the door open, the box tucked under his arm.

  She stepped out onto the porch, and he joined her, pausing to lock the door before walking behind her down the sidewalk.

  She pulled open her car door and paused to look back at him. “Should I meet you here tomorrow?” Her voice was even; her gaze calm behind her glasses.

  Clearly, he thought, she didn’t share the tension that slammed him every time she was near.

  “It’s probably better if you stop at the house,” he told her. “If I’m not there, try the barns. I’m working with Cade and Zach in the south pasture in the morning but I should be back by ten.”

  “All right. See you tomorrow, then.” She slid into the car and moments later lifted a hand in farewell as she drove away.

  Eli leaned against the tailgate of his truck and watched dust rise up from behind her car until it disappeared over the rise of the hill. Why did he suddenly feel a sense of loss?

  Sharing the studio with the pretty writer had left him tense and irritable. Amanda Blake wasn’t a woman who chattered nonstop, nor had she asked a lot of annoying questions. Except for the moments when she’d shown him the eagle sketch in his mother’s journal, she’d focused on reading and taking notes, pretty much ignoring him. Despite that, he’d been unable to get much done during their few hours in the studio. He had long hours of painstaking tarnish removal to complete before moving his mother’s sculptures to New York for the auction. If Amanda continued to be a distraction, he wouldn’t be able to estimate the amount of time needed to prepare for the showing with the gallery. And the sooner he could confirm a date for the auction, the closer he would be to bringing in income to pay off the tax debt hovering over the Triple C.

  That couldn’t happen fast enough, he thought. The sooner the taxes were paid, the better. Then they could focus on making the ranch a thriving enterprise again.

  All he had to do was turn off his attraction to Amanda Blake for a few hours a day. They’d made a good bargain: she got what she wanted with exclusive access to his mother’s journals and photos, while he received her assistance in locking in her brother-in-law’s gallery for the auction.

  She doesn’t have to know how badly I wanted her signature on the contract clause saying she couldn’t publish any comments about the family after Mom died, he thought.

  Now all he had to do was remember she was off-limits for anything beyond business.

  Just because something about her made his body switch into “me Tarzan, you Jane” mode and demanded he get closer, intimately closer, didn’t mean he had to act on it.

  He’d known lots of women he’d been attracted to but never slept with. Amanda would have to stay on that list.

  He could do this.

  He ignored the snicker of amusement from his conscience that whispered Amanda was different. He spent the rest of the afternoon working nonstop, digging fence post holes, stringing wire and chasing cattle that stubbornly resisted being returned to their own side of the fence line. He purposely tried to physically wear himself out. But when he fell into bed that night, he dreamed of Amanda’s hazel eyes sparkling with amusement behind the narrow black frames of her glasses and the plump, lush curve of her mouth.

  Chapter Six

  Amanda settled into a routine over the next week. She rose early, went jogging and stopped at the café for breakfast, often spending a few moments exchanging pleasantries with Mariah. Then she walked back to the hotel to shower, dress and head out to the Triple C. At the ranch, Eli met her outside his house and she followed his truck as they drove to the studio. Once inside, she settled at the table to read journals, study photos and make notes, while Eli painstakingly cleaned tarnish from one or another of his mother’s sculptures. She tried valiantly to ignore the way Eli made her feel. There was no point in it. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in a relationship with anyone, much less a reporter he didn’t trust.

  When she’d read all the journals and looked at all the photos in the first two boxes, Eli brought her more. Amanda loved reading the journals. Melanie Coulter had not only been a brilliant artist, but she’d had an amazing ability to make scenes come alive in her diaries, with her vivid, descriptive phrases.

  On Tuesday morning Amanda gathered her courage and turned in her chair to look at Eli. His boot heels were hooked over the rungs of the stool; his head bent as he focused on a two-foot sculpture of an eagle, wings lifted in flight, on the workbench in front of him.

  “Eli?”

  He turned his head sideways and looked her, his eyes losing their distracted haze to focus intently on her. “Yes?”

  “Your mother was a wonderful writer. Even as a young child, she was able to articulate an amazing insight into the world around her and how that translated into her need to create images.” Amanda lifted the notebook she held, opening to a page with an ink sketch of a horse. “It’s fascinating to see that awareness of the world develop, and repeat itself at more depth, in her journals from year to year.”

  “I felt the same when I read them,” he told her. “She told me once that she knew I’d be a successful artist someday because my drawings reminded her of her own at that age.”

  “How old were you when she said that?”
Amanda asked, curious.

  “Six or seven, I think. I don’t remember precisely.” Eli looked past her, out the glass doors. “It was summer and we were sitting on the deck. She had her sketchbook and I had mine—we were drawing the horses in the pasture across the creek. When I showed her my sketch, she hugged me, told me that someday I’d be a famous artist, just like her.” His eyes were distant, the lines of his mouth softened with affection.

  “She was a great mom, wasn’t she?” Amanda said, touched by the obvious love he felt for his mother.

  “The best.” Eli gestured at the long worktable. “I spent hours in here with her, working next to her. I realized after I was older that she must have often put her own work on hold to answer my questions and show me how to work silver.”

  With sudden clarity, the enormity of the loss Eli had endured when his mother died struck Amanda anew. Not only had he lost his mother, but he’d lost the mentor guiding his earliest artistic efforts. Before she could speak, Eli shook his head as if to clear it. When his gaze met hers, he was once again focused and intent, the very intimate moment between them gone.

  “She was an amazing woman in all respects,” he told her. “I hope your book will reflect that.”

  “When I came to Montana, I was a huge fan of your mother’s work. Everything I’ve learned since I’ve been here has made me an even greater admirer of the person she was,” Amanda told him. She paused to draw a breath. “I would very much like to quote some passages from her journals and use some of her sketches as illustrations in my book.”

  Eli’s eyes narrowed over her, a faint frown pleating two lines between his dark eyebrows. “How many?” he asked.

  “Perhaps five to ten.” She held her breath, hardly daring to hope.

  He considered her, his face inscrutable. “I’ll think about it and let you know in a day or two,” he said at last.

  “Great. I appreciate it.” It wasn’t a yes, but it was better than an outright refusal, she thought. She’d count that as a success.

  “That reminds me…” Eli wiped his hands on a black-smudged towel and reached into the padded box he carried the sculptures in. He took out a large manila envelope and removed a thin sheaf of papers. “The attorney drew up the contract that sets out the details of our agreement.” He stood and, in two strides, reached her to hold out the documents. “There are two originals, one for you, one for me. I’ve already signed off on them.”